Heads and Tails
by Artful Doodler
Summary: Taken from John Watson's point of view.


"Suck it," he told me, and so I did. Willingly, eagerly. I opened my mouth, pushed out my lips and took his swollen cock head in. It would have been nice to say it was a sweet candy cane, but let's be realistic. It tasted liked hard cock. A good hard cock, but a cock nonetheless: salt, the bitter bite of precome, the shit tinge you always get down there, the musky reek of hormones, of excitement.

A good taste, a damned fine taste. A cock taste – and I tried to get every inch of it, and him, down my throat. I've sucked my share, some bigger than this great beast filling my mouth, but for me – then, there – it was the only cock in the world.

I sucked him as he moaned. I was not the first, definitely not the last, to play the skin flute – a bad metaphor in its original antique context, but a favourite with my twist: yes, lips around. Yes, I was sucking and not blowing. But I really _was_ playing him, applying my lips and making lovely music escape from him.

And beautiful tunes I was making him perform: moans, groans, sighs, hisses – the entire scales of pleasure. I couldn't do my own singing, of course, with his instrument tickling the back of my throat, but I did hum and moan a bit in accompaniment.

Then it was time to stop – slowly, I opened my jaws even wider and let his hard cock slide free, the thick head popping up from my throat, glancing off my teeth, past the roughness, playfulness of flickering tongue and then out. Shimmering, gleaming with a dribble of precome and lots of my spit, he came free, tapping against my nose with his strength, the iron of his shaft.

"Time to toss it, boy," he said, grinning wide and wonderfully mean.

xxoOoxx

Dancing in the light, twirling around and around, a sparkling bit of silver in the twilight room. Fast, so fast, he reached out and caught it – snatching the coin before he even fell past my eyes. A slap against his burly forearms. A peak under his hand, seeing the side – but showing me nothing but a wicked grin. "Tails."

I returned the smile, wiping my mouth free of my come-sucking drool. Keeping my eyes on his, relishing the hunger in his blue irises, I reached over and gently took up the bottle of baby oil.

Then I wasn't facing him – but rather a white wall, a small expanse of eggshell. I knew, soon enough, that I'd be memorizing, registering every crack, every deformation. I would never be able to look at that small spot of wall without thinking of what would come next.

Arse high, I offered myself to him – no, I gave him my arsehole. He had the rest of me, or could have as much as me as he wanted, but I knew all he wanted right then was my arsehole. I'd heard the compliments, so I showed my hole to him with pride – "a pink delicacy", "a fuckable rosebud", "such a pretty fuck-hole", and so much more.

His hand on my arse – hot, rough, strong. Just, at first, holding me, gripping one of my cheeks. Preparatory, a way he shakes hands with the arse he's going to fuck. Then a gentle pressure around that "wondrous arsehole" – a slow, steady pressure around my "delicate hole" – and I know that he's in me. A finger, at first, but he's within me. It feels good – a gentle invasion. Good, but not great – and so I growl, feral and hungry, demanding something greater, more powerful, more feral.

And he delivers. Up the gradient of sensation – passing the tickling entry of that finger and beyond… beyond even my own fingers, my own toys. He is not just big, he is not just huge. He is beyond all of that – and all of that is now beyond the lips of my arsehole, deep within me.

And so he fucks me. God, yes, he fucks me – in and out, a fucking, two-stroke engine of cock and legs, balls slapping against my arse. I can feel his hot invasion, his piston-stroke hammering deep inside me. I don't do it often, but I do it then – hot tears rolling down my cheeks, burning me. But they are not sadness leaking. No, they are tears of wonderful pain, wonderful suffering. It's a good kind of hurt, the sexy hurt of being fucked good and hard.

Then it's over, but not with the usual curtain call. No, this time it doesn't conclude with his hot come in the hot recesses of me. No, he pulls free long before that, long before the come boils free of his great hairy balls.

xxoOoxx

Again, the shimmering ascent of the coin – a twirling dance in the dim light of my bedroom. For the first time I notice denomination and feel a delightful wave of shame that I'm worth only 50p.

He doesn't show me the side the coin lands on, after he slaps it silly on his arms. Instead, he rolls back onto his wonderfully tight arse, showing me his rock-hard cock – and such a cock it is. I know where it's been, my arsehole still throbbing from its absence, but that doesn't take away my hunger for it.

An echo, a touch of déjà vu: "Suck it."

So I do, taking his thick cock into my hungry mouth. It didn't taste like shit – but then I wasn't in a position to really tell, or care. All that mattered was my mouth was around his cock, his head down my throat, his hairy balls tickling my chin. All was right in the world: I was sucking on my lord's cock.

I was somewhere else, lost in the sensation of his thick shaft sliding in and out of my mouth, fucking my tonsils, screwing my throat. I was lost, hovering beyond it all, in a place of pure lust and driving, hammering love. Distantly, I was aware my cock was throbbing, hard, and that my feverish hand was jamming up and down along it. It felt good – that was sure – but his cock down my throat felt even better.

Then, Jesus, he came – my Master, my Lover. He came. At first I thought it was part of my sucking, the twitching that flowed up and down his throbbing cock, but then he started to fill my throat, up into my mouth – his hot, salty jizz, his steaming come. I swallowed and swallowed and swallowed some more, sucking his sticky come down my throat as I massaged him, squeezed his shaft with my mouth.

Sometime during this I came too – jetting onto the sheets, my own orgasm quaking my knees, pulling myself free of his gleaming cock, to fall, panting onto the sheets.

After a point, we slept, curled up in my tiny bed – a warm embrace of spent bodies – with just the tiny cool spot of a coin, pressed against my chest, to remind me of why we were sleeping.


End file.
